


It began with a murder

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Villain Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:13:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s easy, so easy, too easy, to lift his shield.<br/>To bring it down.<br/>To end a life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brandnewfashion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandnewfashion/gifts).



It begins with a murder.

It begins with a monster, no, a man, he was a _man_ , except that’s worse, he’s battled monsters less horrible than that scum, that filth, how could he, how could _anyone_ even do that to a _child_ -

It begins with him reading about the abductions in the paper, hearing the stories from his neighbours, sees the fearful parents keeping their children close as they walk the streets, the frustrated cops hitting dead ends over and over.

It begins with his frustration, his wanting to help, to do _something_ , anything to make it stop.

He knows these streets, knows them despite their differences, their strange newness and alterations, remembers where an alley wasn’t always an alley, where a door once was, where hiding places could be found. Where someone could be hiding.

It begins with an accident, a fight fuelled by anger, by overwhelming fury, and this man is just a man, not a soldier, not a super-powered alien, not even a match for Steve at his weakest, but it doesn’t matter, all he can see are those children’s faces and he hits and hits and hits.

It begins with blood on his hands, a broken body on the ground, face a pulpy mess, and his horror at his own violence.

It begins when a tiny boy, small and frail with wide brown eyes, a tiny hand clutching his, as he whispers his thanks over and over again. It begins when a child’s tears wet the crook of his neck, as Steve leaves the body, as the police say nothing, report nothing, don’t look too hard into this happy accident, even if they all _know_ , and so Steve says nothing as well.

It begins with a murder no one talks about.

 

\--

 

It begins with the sound of his shield hitting cement, the metallic clang singing in his ears.

With the screaming of the scientist scrambling at the bloody stump where his hand once was, ignored as Steve bends to pick up the severed hand still clutching the remote control, crushes it one handed into pieces.

And he looks into the manic, furious eyes of the scientist as he boasts of how his failure means nothing, of the deaths Steve hadn’t prevented, of the destruction and terror that had already happened, how defeat meant _nothing_ -

It’s easy, so easy, too easy, to lift his shield.

To bring it down.

To end a life.

He looks up and sees Iron Man watching him, face-plate raised, hands still hovering over the smoking remains of the scientist’s computer. Iron Man looks away, _Tony_ looks away, and Steve wonders if he’s failed in some way, ruined some boyhood image of a hero, and reminds himself that it doesn’t matter.

Steve says nothing.

It begins with his ease at taking a life.

 

\--

 

It wasn’t supposed to be easy. It wasn’t even supposed to be him. But he’d insisted. He’d said he could.

And now he’s standing there, an impossible decision to make, because he could never, ever take an innocent life, he shouldn’t, and this isn’t a criminal, an evil-doer like the others, not a monster but a boy, a young man who made the wrong decisions, who deserves prison, who could _change_ given time, be different, have a life.

But already he’s getting looks, the others so certain he can’t do it, and he _promised_ , told them he could, that he wouldn’t fail.

Even if it meant falling. Even if it meant being unable to turn back.

He remembers a child’s bruised face and a tiny hand in his.

He has to do this.

It’s too easy to reach out and snap the man’s neck.

 

\--

 

It’s easy to forget, to break away from the world, from the past, and let himself become something new.

He’s done it before, so many times, it’s practically second nature now.

Skinny nobody to soldier. Soldier to super soldier. To becoming an icon, then a secret soldier, a war hero, a man out of time, an avenger.

Again and again and again.

Reinvented so many times, but he doesn’t forget, doesn’t lose sight of himself, never completely.

Still just a kid from Brooklyn, too dumb to run away from a fight.

The Michigan pack brutally murder a teenage girl too vocal in her support of gay rights, too proud of her own sexuality and desires for the pack’s tastes.

Her body is left broken in an alley.

Steve has them come to the warehouse being used as a temporary base. They smirk and boast and Steve lets himself smile, lets them speak, spouting their bigoted views before he hefts his shield and throws it with a flick of his wrist.

The throw is angled just so, the metal rim slicing neatly through muscle and hitting bone with a ringing slap. The watchdog’s head snaps back, shield sticking firmly in the meat of his throat as he sinks to his knees, spinal column broken.

Steve smiles at the rest of the Michigan pack, silent now. Stepping forward he plucks the shield from the dog’s throat, listens to him gurgle wetly through his ruined throat.

“You killed her,” he says quietly, running his thumb around the bloodied rim of the shield. “For what? Her crime was being herself. For loving someone. You killed her for that?”

There is only silence. Steve looks up now, meets their eyes, and he can see it, the fear, but it’s not enough. There’s no _understanding_ , no realisation that they’ve done wrong. Only that they’ve angered him.

Steve sighs, tapping a rhythm onto his shield, letting the familiar muted song wash over him. The sound of justice. He lets himself smile at that. It sounded like something a certain insufferable billionaire would say.

“Are we not above such things?” Steve continues softly. “We punish the greedy, liars and frauds, murderers and thieves. We punish those who deserve to be punished. We are trying to fix our broken country. What did the murder of that girl change? What crime did she commit?”

The pack shifts nervously, glancing at the other Watchdogs present, standing and watching the scene in silence. Steve had them come, to see. They needed to see. To learn. And they would learn.

Raising the shield slightly, Steve brings it down hard, letting the resounding clang bring the pack’s attention back to him.

“I asked you a question,” Steve says, voice dangerously smooth. “What reason did you have in killing her?”

One of them, a thickset man, braves speaking, though his vice betrays his fear. “Homosexuality is a sin against God, and should-”

“Should what?” Steve interrupts levelly, and the dog’s face pales. “What do you know of God? You are a murderer, justifying your sins with religion. Is that not a crime?”

The dog opens his mouth, but Steve moves, darts forward and grabs at him, lets his fingers sink into the fat and muscle of his stomach until his feels the warmth of blood against his hand. There’s a surprised choking sound as the dog looks down, sees Steve’s fingers bury themselves into belly.

There’s a brief moment where Steve finds himself remembering art class, his hands moulding wet clay, burying his fingers into softness and shaping it as he willed. The dog’s flesh is warm, unlike the cool clay, but it is the same. Shaping a man is no different. No different at all.

The wet sucking sound as he pulls his hand free is exactly the same.

“We punish those who deserve punishment,” Steve raises his voice, addressing the room. “Do you understand?”

There’s a chorus of “Yes, sir!” and Steve lets himself believe, if only for the moment. They will learn. He will make them learn.

Smiling at the dog clutching the ruined flesh of his stomach, Steve reaches out a hand, petting his hair as he drags his face up so their eyes meet. “We punish those who deserve to be punished,” he repeats, raising his shield above their heads, and the dog’s eyes are pleading. Steve smiles sadly, apologetically. “Do you understand?”

“Please,” the dog whispers, and Steve will oblige him, if only because cruelty was never in his nature.

It ends with the sound of his shield hitting cement, the metallic clang singing in his ears.

Around him, the Watchdogs show him how well they’ve learnt. The Michigan pack bay for mercy as their slaughtered like the dogs they are, and Steve thinks of how easy it is, to take a life. Easier still, to train a pack of dogs, no matter how wild they are.

A wet droplet runs down his cheek, and he rubs at it thoughtfully.

Fury had asked him to check in half an hour ago. He wonders how long it will take them to realise.

When the silence returns, a Watchdog stands in front of him. His uniform, Steve notes absently, clings to his front, wet with red. Readily saluting, eyes clear, expectant, and ah, Steve is pleased, that it seems they’ve finally learnt what way their morality should truly lie. Where their allegiance lies.

“What are your orders, Commander?” the dog asks, and Steve lets himself smile, lets the dog see his approval, his pleasure.

“New York, I think,” Steve says, touching the star painted in the centre of his shield. “There are some old friends of mine that we need to see to.”

“Your old stomping ground,” the dog says, and Steve nods, clamping down the bolt of nostalgia. It would do him well, to go back there.

To remember where it all started. Where he started.

With a skinny kid from Brooklyn, too stupid to run away from a fight.

And a murder no one talks about.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be porn, but then Dondy distracted me. Instead have Tony in glasses.

Tony strolls down Park Row, icy wind making his eyes prick behind his glasses.

It’s vaguely insulting that he gets barely a glance from passers-by, but they scurry by him, heads bowed and shoulders hunched against the cold.

It’s definitely the new glasses, he’s sure of it; Pepper was a dirty liar, saying it made him look distinguished and reliable, and Tony’s is definitely going to tell her she’s a horrible person, probably, or at least go and sulk in her office until he’s kicked out.

A cab skitters past, sending icy mud and snow over the sidewalk, making Tony sidestep away unthinkingly and almost colliding with a harried looking woman. She doesn’t even look up as Tony apologises to her already retreating form, but her small son twists around, staring, and Tony winks at him.

The little boy raises a hand, pointing at him, but before he can call attention to Tony, mother and son disappear around a corner, leaving Tony feeling vaguely disappointed. He could use a little adoration right now, a self-indulgent distraction, but Pepper can’t be mad for the publicity when he’s looking so _distinguished_.

He really hates the glasses.

He fiddles with the black frames, wondering how much trouble he’ll be in if he just throws the things into the trash, but it would be pointless to do it now, when Pepper couldn’t see him do it as a point of protest.

A pretty young woman glances up at him as he grumbles to himself, then does a double take, eyes wide. She barely notices when her coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup when she stumbles, too busy staring at him, and Tony is flattered, despite her face being twisted into almost comical surprise.

Except – her eyes are fixed on Tony’s shoulder, looking beyond him – and then arms are snaking around his waist, making all his hackles rise, hands curling into fists at the audacity of some stranger getting handsy, ready to strike, before a warm breath in his ear murmurs, “Tony,” familiar enough that he relaxes, if only slightly.

The girl is still rooted on the spot, staring at them avidly, and Tony wants to fidget, uncomfortable with the attention now that he has another man’s arms wrapped around him, but with a sudden flinch, the girl reddens and abruptly scurries away.

Tony blinks, surprised at her sudden departure, but then those thick arms tighten slightly and he twists around as best he can to glare up at Steve. “D’you mind?” he snaps, harsher than he means to, but the touching has him on edge, this strange embrace too close to affection for him to handle, not from Steve.

Steve smiles, loosens his grip slightly to let Tony shift in his grip, but before he can step away, Steve’s hands are on his hips, twisting him around so they’re face to face, too close, too familiar, and it’s so unfair that Tony can’t think properly with those hands on him. He wants to brush those hands away, wants to scowl and snap to Steve for daring to do this, do this to _him_ , as if he’d stepped out of Tony’s secret dreams, the ones full of hot mouths and furious blue eyes.

He wants to run, doesn’t care if it makes him look like a coward, because he _can’t_ , cannot deal with this, in public, in daylight, can’t even allow himself to think about this outside his room, but he’s frozen, pinned in place by those too-strong hands, pressing hard enough into his hips that he can feel each finger, the heat seeping through his suit, burning him like a brand, and, oh _god_ , what if they left bruises?

Tony throws his hands up, shoving away from Steve, but he barely moves, and Tony forces himself to look up, meet those blue eyes, meaning to demand to be released, but Steve is smiling, expression soft and warm, and it’s not right, Steve _never_ looks at him like that, why would he, they were barely friends.

Swallowing his panic, Tony growls, “What the hell, Cap? What’s with the reach around?” And ok, terrible choice of words, and he wants to snatch them back, stop his mind from conjuring _that_ particular image, but Steve huffs, eyes glinting with something dark.

“Tony” he says, voice low, strangely intimate, and Tony can’t hide the flinch at his tone. “You shouldn’t be walking alone. It’s dangerous to be out by yourself, without protection. Where are your bodyguards? Or did you run off again? You should know better, you’re a public figure after all, not just Iron Man,” and Tony opens his mouth, suddenly furious, that Steve would start up this old argument, that he somehow can’t handle himself without the suit, but Steve draws him closer, and now they’re chest to chest, Steve’s breath puffing against his cheek. “Do you want to get hurt? Is that it? Or do you really just get off on the danger, like the reporters always say?”

Tony snarls, throwing all his weight against Steve, but it’s like pushing a brick wall, and they’re getting looks now as he struggles to escape, hands clawing, feet kicking, but Steve seems to hardly notice.

“Tony,” he murmurs, tone soothing, and Tony elbows him in the ribs. “Do you know I worry about you? Do you even care? You’re not invincible, Tony – you’re not your armour. You have to understand; I don’t want you to get hurt. You, the Avengers, you’re my family. My home. I want to protect that, don’t you see?”

Twisting, Tony stares at Steve’s face, his earnest expression, and wants to be sick. “Do you even hear what you’re saying, Rogers?” he says, incredulous. “You hear the crazy you’re spouting? Where the hell is this coming from? Have you been brainwashed or something? Does Fury-”

“Don’t worry about Fury,” Steve says, and at last, there’s a flicker of normality at the annoyed expression that comes over his face at the mention of the Director. “He’ll be dealt with soon enough. Ah, but that’s not something for you to worry about,” he hurries to say when Tony stiffens, fear gripping him, because that was unlike Steve, that cold voice, that dark look filled with promise, and Tony slips his hand into his pocket, surreptitiously tapping at his phone, to call SHIELD, warn Fury, because there is definitely something deeply wrong with Steve.

“You’ll be okay, Tony,” promises Steve, so disgustingly earnest, as if he doesn’t even comprehend the crazy he’s saying, and Tony desperately wishes Thor was still around to bash some sense into him. “I’ll keep you safe,” and then there’s a sharp prick in his neck, sending liquid fire through his veins that leaves numbness in its wake.

Betrayal, sharp and bitter, lances through him, and Tony’s choking, body slumping limply into Steve, uncomprehending, because Steve drugged him, and he would _never_ , but he’s falling, sinking into darkness, and he _can’t_ -

“Go to sleep,” a voice whispers, familiar but not, because he didn’t know this man at all, did he? He’d been fooling himself again, betrayed by someone he trusted _again_ , and god, did he never learn, never stopped letting those close to him trick him over and over.

The last thing he knows is the thought that Steve hadn’t stopped him sending a text to SHIELD, as a mouth presses against his slack lips, a soft, “Good night, Shellhead,” sending him into darkness.


End file.
